


Whatever's Left

by ARoadInCapeCod



Category: The X-Files, The X-Files: Fight the Future (1998)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Deleted Scene, Drama, F/M, Feels, Ficlet, Guilt, Headcanon, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Light Angst, MSR, Male-Female Friendship, Missing Scene, Movie: Fight The Future, Partnership, Pre-X-Files Revival, Recovery, Sickfic, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARoadInCapeCod/pseuds/ARoadInCapeCod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a deleted scene from The X-Files: Fight The Future (1998). The scene occurs in between Antarctica but before Scully and Mulder's hearing and testimony before the FBI at the end of the film. Primarily written for @leiascully's X-Files Writing Challenge/Prompt: In Sickness and In Health on tumblr.</p><p>I do not own or take credit for these characters. I have simply borrowed them on behalf of my original prose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever's Left

**Author's Note:**

> Not yet edited for typos, grammar, and the like.

A knock at her apartment door startled her awake - she sat up with a jolt, heavily covered in blankets on her couch. Her eyes dripped over the brown wood. “Who is it?” She asked, still groggy. The clock on her end-table read 7:42 PM and her phone line had been silent all day.

A familiar voice replied from the apartment hallway, “The boogie-man.”

Scully rolled her eyes and slipped off the cushions that begged her not to leave, her hands hugged her chest to prevent another chill. Her fingers slipped over the lock and she opened the door, sheepishly. “What’re you doing here, Mulder?”

“I brought you soup,” he replied and lifted the white paper bag to her level.

“Mulder…” A small groan escaped her lips, not wanting visitors - not here, not now - until she fully recovered and felt more like herself.She  felt as though she might betray some kind of FBI policy that partners after hearing and testimony, laden with their last names, was completed; however, those involved had never made any mention of such things and the hearing was scheduled early next week. Additionally, she was not exactly in the mood to talk shop with Mulder or conspire against anyone, or to break any rules. That word and any of its relatives were simply not in her vocabulary but it was certainly quite frequent in his. “…Okay,” she caved, with a long sigh. It was the promise of food that sent her over the edge.

Scully turned on her sock-covered heels and dragged herself back to the couch.

Mulder let himself in and let the door shut softly behind him. “C’mon, Scully, everyone loves soup.” The food was, in part, to remedy his own grief. The bees? His fault. Her kidnapping? Because of him. Antarctica? On account of his actions.

He never wanted to see the snow again.

It was all because of him. He had almost lost her.  _Almost._

Yet, he felt worse ,leaving her alone. While he understood his partner required time to recover, he knew she would need someone - at least for an hour or two to ensure she was doing okay. He knew that someone had to be him.

For too long, she had been his rip-cord. Without her, his parachute - the insanity of his mind - would have surely got him lost or even killed. Without her, he would have sunk deep, long ago, into a murky body of water never to be seen again. Always, Scully was there to let him down gently, to bring him to safe waters - up and out - alive. Scully had long brought him to the surface of his fantasies, his notions and theories. She was the invisible breath that told him when and why it was time to rest at least for a day; her rationalism was the only real thing in his life and it had saved him too many times when he wandered too far in the ticks of light that would only lead him into the unkind morning hazes of deception. She was the storm that let him live. He always knew there was righteous God inside her.

This was all he could do to thank her.

Scully settled back on the couch, in her blanket cocoon. “What’re you doing, Mulder?” She asked, her eyes watched him disappear from view into her kitchen after he deposited the bag on the light-brown coffee table.

“The boogie-man and woman need spoons, G-Woman,” he replied from afar, opening drawer after drawer in a poor attempt to locate silverware. At last, he returned with two glistening silver spoons. “One for the lady,” he said, handing her the utensil with a faux curtsy. He opened the bag and fished out a container before removing the lid and handing it to her.

“Did _you_ make this?” Scully asked, mockingly because she had long ago realized that Mulder did not cook. In the last five years, she could not recall a time in which she spied him lighting a burner on his stove, nuking something in the microwave, or visiting the FBI's cafeteria. Subsequently, whether or not that he cooked or ate food of substance still remained a mystery.

“No,” he said, truthfully. “My neighbor did….” He paused and decided to elaborate. “...she tells me I need to eat better...so I can fight all those bad guys.”

Scully chuckled and instantly her ribs ached in protest. She hid her discomfort and gently sipped more broth. “It’s good,” she commented and swallowed a second mouthful. Soft carrots, crisp celery, warm noodles: her hunger pains intensified, aching to be relieved with more. Over the last few days, she had not found the strength to make anything other than tea and dry peanut-butter toast. Sleep was her friend and so was standing under the warm rain of a shower for fifteen minutes - everyday.

As he settled by the coffee table, Scully found her thoughts darkening. She did not want this...this...hate for him. Hate was a very strong word for this man who was her partner; especially, for a man who had saved her once, twice, three times before this; for a man that had held her hand through a sickness so far worse than this.

Conversely, a sense of dread had also appeared in the form of internal blame -  she _had_ followed him deep into that horrible maze of a field. How long would she follow? One day, she knew she would have her fill; now, however, her cup had not yet run over. Nevertheless, she knew she would find Mulder dead before she would see him quit in his pursuit of all things and that notion had kept her awake so, so many times before.

Mulder sat at the foot of her couch, his long legs splayed out before him on the rug. Scully noticed he had not touched his meal - she furrowed her brow.

He craned his neck back and softy remarked, “Someone was hungry.”

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully retorted without apology as she emptied her bowl. “I see you’re n—”

“I will,” he said, interrupting.

Before she could think of what to do with her bowl and spoon, Mulder was on his feet releasing the container from her hands. “Thank you,” Scully mumbled as another wave of exhaustion settled deep within her bones. 

He returned to the living room, minutes later, drying his hands on a white dish-towel. He peeked over the edge of the couch and pursed his lips finding Scully’s skin flush, her eyes closed and cradled in sleep, her chest moving rhythmically in a light heave of up-and-down. He grabbed an orphaned blue blanket from the arm of the couch and carefully unfolded it, laying it over her uncovered feet and chest.

Guilt crept along his neck again: he had buried her in deep with these last few days and had little energy left in him once he dug her out once the events had unfolded and ran its slow, cruel course; yet, -this - him before her, was a sight that allowed his grief creep along while bringing comfort in his chest and a slight sigh of relief. He was at ease and he would let whatever stampeded both their bodies run its course. 

“Let your fever come,” he whispered, and come it did.


End file.
